Startled from his deep sleep by the shout of the Amatongas, as they
leaped into the clearing, the soldier had sprung to his feet, and
possessing the faculty of instantly recovering his senses, when suddenly
awoke, he at once comprehended his situation. Shouting to Wyzinski to
join him, and whirling round his head the heavy knapsack held by the
straps, he struck down the foremost savage: a second shared the same
fate, but the leather straps broke with the blow. Springing on the
third, Hughes grappled with his adversary, clutching the chief Matumba,
for it was no other, fiercely by the throat--but he had met his match.
Matumba, short of stature, was yet a powerful man, and though partially
stunned by the fall, and his heavy knobstick having dropped from his
hands, he struggled manfully for life. The fire had been trampled out,
the light of the stars was very feeble, and the two rolled over and over
in the death struggle, none daring to meddle with them. A dozen dark,
naked forms moved round them; the long knives gleamed in the starlight,
but the Amatongas could not strike, so rapid were the movements of the
two struggling men. At last, Matumba's efforts seemed to grow weaker,
the deadly grip tightened on his throat, and as he lay under him, Hughes
buried his short dagger in the Amatonga's side. Casting the body from
him, with a superhuman effort, and without pausing for a moment, the
soldier dashed through the circle, the savages striking at him with
their knives.
Seizing his rifle as he fled, with one sweeping blow he drove back the
foremost of his pursuers, and shouting to Wyzinski to follow, plunged
into the bush. The ground ascended, the trees grew farther apart; he
was on the verge of the forest; but one of the long knives had wounded
him deeply in the left shoulder, and he was growing faint from loss of
blood. Pausing to listen, he distinctly heard the crashing of the
underwood. Was it Wyzinski following him? Listening attentively, he
could distinguish the same noise to the right and left, and he then knew
that the Amatongas, paralysed and astonished as they had been at first
by the desperate nature of the resistance, had spread themselves out,
and were bringing up the whole country before them on three sides, just
as they did when hunting antelope. On the fourth ran the Zambesi.
Moving rapidly forward, and determined to trust to the river rather than
to the Amatongas, Hughes came to a nullah. Its banks were covered with
brush, and the masses of convolvuli almost hid it in places. A sudden
thought struck him. Jumping in, he followed its course until he came to
a spot completely shut in by creepers and shrubs, then placing his rifle
near him, he lay down. Minutes passed, the breaking of the bushes came
near him; the cries of the savages calling to each other seemed close
to; the head of an assegai was thrust into the mass of verdure which
formed his only protection, striking the rock within an inch of him; the
noises in the brush, and the cries passed on. Grey daylight came
streaming between the leaves, the purple convolvuli opened their
flowers, and the parrots and wild pigeons began to awake among the
branches.
The wound in his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but he felt faint and
nearly unable to move. Cautiously raising his head above the level of
the bank, he glanced around. "All seems quiet. If I could only reach
the river," he muttered. "My mouth is dry and parched with thirst."
Slowly and painfully he extricated himself from the bed of the nullah,
and then, his rifle on his shoulder, followed its course.
It did indeed revive him, as he scooped up the waters of the Zambesi
with his hands, and then, taking off his clothes, bathed the wounded
shoulder in the cool river. What had become of his comrade was now his
thought, and the idea of not ascertaining his fate for fear of personal
consequences, never occurred to him. The sun would soon be up, the bees
were just humming along the river banks, the patches of forest-land on
the plain beyond the river looked black, in the grey dawn, and the stars
were fast disappearing. He would take his way back to the clearing
slowly, and cautiously. Just as he had stepped on the bank
reinvigorated and refreshed, a noise struck his ears.
Turning towards the river, he leaned on his rifle, listening
attentively. It was a fine broad stream the Zambesi, even here, before
the Shire river pours its waters into it far below the fort of Senna;
and as he looked down it, he again caught the noise distinctly.
"It is the steady pull of oars in the rowlocks," he said, speaking
aloud, unconsciously. "I cannot be mistaken. Perhaps I may find help."
Concealing himself behind a bush, he waited. The sounds, whatever they
were, became more and more distinct, and soon, slowly pulling against
the stream, a boat drew clear of the bend of the river. Slowly it
surged onward meeting the stream, urged on by the strokes of six rowers,
the Portuguese flag streaming out from the stern, and a small carronade
mounted in her bows. In the stern sheets sat a tall, upright figure,
the tiller ropes in either hand, dressed in a monkey jacket, pilot cloth
trousers, and a sailor's cap. His long white hair streamed in the wind,
and by his side a nearly naked savage. "Could he be mistaken? No,"
said Hughes again, speaking aloud, "it is Captain Weber, and Masheesh
has not deserted us. He was bringing aid, alas too late."
"Boat ahoy!" shouted Hughes, as he stepped from behind the bush, waving
his rifle in the air.
A loud shout came over the river; the next moment the skipper's left
hand gave the yawl's bows a broad sheer towards the bank, and Masheesh
and the old sailor were by his side. His tale was soon told. Not a
moment was lost, and though they found the clearing empty, the spoor of
the Amatonga was plain. Masheesh was sent forward to reconnoitre, the
Portuguese soldiers were landed, and the result is known.
"And what is that over yonder, which I took for you?" asked the
missionary.
Hughes rose from the spot where he had been sitting, the missionary's
hand in his; he stooped over the heap, and threw the skin aside.
"It is Matumba," he said; "look at the mark of my grip on his throat,
and the dark blood-stain on his side. He gave me trouble enough," he
continued, as he threw back the skins over the dead savage; "and his
face with its starting eyeballs, and tongue hanging out of his mouth, is
no pleasant sight. He was a treacherous savage, but died the death of a
brave."
"I don't see," said Weber, who now joined them, "that there is any
reason why we should not pitch the bodies of these villains into the
fire and have them consumed. It is more ship-shape than leaving them to
the jackals."
The thing was no sooner said than done, and the party made short work of
it. The body of the captain of the "Argonaut" was carried down to the
boat, and covered with the Portuguese ensign. Those of the Amatonga
placed on the fire, which was burning fiercely.
"One, two, three, and yo heave ho!" shouted the sailors, as Matumba's
corpse was launched into the air, and fell with a heavy thud into the
middle of the flames, sending up a shower of sparks. Fresh brush was
heaped over it, and the whole was left burning.
"Poor Mason," said Captain Weber, as the party moved off, "he never got
over the loss of his ship. Of the whole crew, only yonder man now
remains."
"But what were you doing here on the Zambesi, Captain Weber, and how
came you in company with Masheesh?"
The Matabele had been in great force, during the short engagement, and
now with his long assegai dyed red with blood, stalked solemnly beside
the missionary, who walked with great difficulty.
"It is easily explained. You will remember when you went over the
`Halcyon's' side, I told you I had but a few months of my three years'
cruise, Captain Hughes," replied the seaman, "and that I was bound for
Quillimane."
"Perfectly, and that you would give me a passage to England if I needed
it," answered Hughes. "I shall be glad to accept it, if you can land me
at Delagoa Bay, Port Natal, or the Cape; for we two have nothing save
our knapsacks and rifles now."
"Avast there! Hear my tale first. It appears a special envoy has been
sent out by the King of Portugal to report on this colony on the
Zambesi. With his staff he has been for the last three months at Tete.
The `Halcyon' has been taken up for his passage home, and I am on my way
to sign articles with Don Francisco di Maxara."
"But that does not account for my seeing Masheesh at your side in yonder
boat?" remarked Hughes.
"The Governor of the fort yonder was at _Tete_ with his Excellency when
the Matabele arrived, and told his tale. The Portuguese would not get
under way without orders. Reaching Senna late last night, I heard of
the affair, knew it must be you, and determined to send poor Mason on to
sign articles, and guided by Masheesh to go to your help."
A cordial grasp of the hand followed this.
"Why, you are burning with fever, my lad, and more fit for the sick bay
than the jungle," said Weber, looking into the soldier's face.
"Shove off; give way, my lads; his Excellency must wait a wee,"
continued the seaman, as the boat sheered down stream, and the men
bending to their oars, the stout craft dashed down the Zambesi, heading
for Senna.
Don Isidore Mujao, the commandant, met them at the landing place,
greatly surprised at their speedy return, and still more so when he saw
the use his Portuguese flag had been put to. About forty years of age;
tall, dark complexioned, and sedate in manner, he welcomed the new
comers, at the same time giving his orders to the men. Taking up the
body of the late captain of the burned ship, six soldiers conveyed it to
the little chapel, and during the pause, the new comers looked around
them.
The fort was built of brick, and was in a very dilapidated condition.
Situated on the right bank of the Zambesi, the river rolled its waters
under the walls, and seemed a large stream, dotted with reed-covered
islands.
"Captain Weber, you can spare your men a toilsome row; his Excellency
will arrive either this night or to-morrow from Tete _en route_ for
Quillimane. Gentlemen," continued the Portuguese, "you are welcome; you
will meet with scant hospitality here, but we will do our best."
Don Mujao took off his black broad-brimmed hat as he spoke, bowing low.
"Ay, ay, then I have not much time to lose. I say, Don," exclaimed the
sailor, "this is the Senhor Wyzinski, a missionary, on the loose, and
whom we found in a fair way to make a grill for Davy Jones; look at his
singed hair and whiskers; and this is an old friend, Captain Hughes,
150th Regiment, who looks half dead with fever."
Again the formal Portuguese raised his hat, bowing first to one and then
to the other.
"Roderigues," he said, beckoning to a soldier who stood near, "show the
Senhors to the only room we can give them. Once more I ask your
consideration for our shortcomings, Senhors."
"Come, make sail!" cried the skipper; "don't be all day backing and
filling here."
The gate opened, then swung to again, as passing the Governor, who stood
with his hat raised from his head, and preceded by the very questionable
individual who had been called Roderigues, Hughes and the missionary,
literally worn out with fatigue and excitement, the one wounded in the
shoulder, the other his face blistered with burns, and hardly able to
walk from the effects of the tightly bound palmyra rope, took their way
up a narrow, winding staircase, turning out of a landing into a large
room, lighted by two barred windows looking over the Zambesi and the
plain beyond.
Two rude stretcher beds placed at opposite sides of the room, two large
horse buckets, evidently intended for washing purposes, a coil of
palmyra rope, to haul up water from the river below, and a couple of
rude chairs, formed the furniture. The roof of the chamber was vaulted,
and the floor was of red brick. Such was the room into which the
soldier ushered the two travel-worn men, and to them it seemed a palace.
Standing at attention as they passed, the Portuguese spoke some words
in his own tongue, then closed the door with a clang. Placing their
rifles against the wall, and throwing down the knapsacks which had been
recovered, the missionary's first act was to push the rude bolt, and
offer up fervent thanks for the protection vouchsafed them during their
late danger.
The water-buckets were put into use, the knapsacks rummaged, and then
the two sat gazing in silence over the river.
"We must manage a passage with our friend, Weber," said Wyzinski, at
last.
"I don't know how it is, I don't feel any interest in anything,"
languidly replied Hughes. "These shivering fits upset me. The fever
has its hold of me."
"I wonder whether they have any quinine? What a miserable, tumble-down
set of wretched hovels these Portuguese have here. A town of thirty
houses."
"The country looks fertile, and the colony should prosper," languidly
returned Hughes, shivering heavily from head to foot, and his face
flushing as he spoke. "Those are curiously-shaped sugar-loaf hills, the
river flowing between us and them. The thick forest stretches beyond,
and how beautiful the distant mountains seem."
"Those are the hills of the Morumbala range, but what interests me more
is yonder boat, swinging to her anchor. She is of English build, has a
small cabin, and pulls eight oars. I should like to drop down the
Zambesi to-morrow. There must be traders at Quillimane, sailing to
Natal or the Cape."
Here a prolonged, and painful shivering fit took possession of Hughes,
gradually and rapidly increasing to such an extent, as soon to
incapacitate him even from talking. That night the pulse was beating at
a fearful pace, the temples throbbed nearly to bursting, and the
terrible shivering fits shook his frame. The following day the brain
was affected and the sufferer went once more through the scenes he had
lately acted. The missionary dragged his cot to that of his sick
comrade, and Captain Weber shared his watch, but the resources of the
fort were very small, and but for his strong constitution the chances
were against recovery.
The morning of the third day, there was a great bustle within the walls
of the ruined fort. Weber came to say good bye. The Portuguese envoy
had arrived from Tete, the agreement had been made, and the captain of
the merchantman was to drop down the river that morning to finish his
preparations.
Hughes was wandering, and did not know him. "It shall go hard but that
you shall have your passage in the `Halcyon,' if he can bear it," said
the skipper, the tears standing in his eyes as he pressed the
missionary's hand. "An hour of the fresh breeze of the Indian ocean
would do more to cooper up yonder craft than all the rubbish in the
world. He's on his beam ends now, that's sure; but may be he'll be all
a-tanto soon."
A knock at the door, and Don Francisco Maxara entered; an elderly,
grey-haired man, tall in stature, and stately in bearing.
"I cannot say it is a pleasure, Senhor," began the old noble, as he
bowed to the missionary, and made room for the merchant captain to pass,
"but at all events it is a duty to place myself and all I have at your
command."
Boiling restlessly from side to side, his handsome features, bronzed by
the sun, now flushed with fever, Hughes was unconscious of their
presence. He was with his corps cheering on his men as he had cheered
them on the plains of Chillianwallah, the day the gallant 10th Regiment
melted away before the masked fire from the Sikh artillery, when gliding
through the open door and passing her arm through her father's, Dona
Isabel de Maxara looked down on him.
Tall and graceful in figure, the girl's face, was of that beautiful
clear brown tint, found only in the sunny south, but one of the
peculiarities which distinguished her was the network of blue veins,
tracing themselves under the transparent olive of the skin; the eyes
were large and intensely brilliant, shaded now by the long black lashes,
which, with the slightly arched and beautifully pencilled eyebrow, told
of Moorish blood. The mouth was small and beautifully cut, the lips
parted now and showing the white teeth; and if there was a fault in the
features, it was that the forehead, with all its lace-work of blue veins
glancing under the clear olive skin, was too high and massive for a
female face. The hair was brushed backwards, fastened behind by a large
comb, tipped with gold, from which hung the long mantilla of Spain.
The sick man saw nothing of all this, he was busy among the guns at
Chillianwallah.
"How long, Senhor," said the girl, looking up at the missionary, and the
large eyes filling as she did so with tears, which rolled one by one
unheeded down her cheeks,--"how long has your friend been ill?"
"This is the third day, mademoiselle," replied he, speaking in French,
both father and daughter having used that language. "Have you any
quinine, Senhor?" he continued, addressing the father.
"Yes, at your service; but not having had any before, what have you been
using?" replied the noble, taking the sick man's hands, and feeling his
pulse.
"A drink made out of the kumbunga plant. It has cured me more than
once."
"Wait," cried the girl, eager to be of use. "I will return in a
moment," and she flew out of the room, showing as she moved the
beautiful foot and ankle peculiar to the Portuguese.
The old noble shook his head as he let the arm he held fall on the
bed-clothes.
"There, use that at once," said the breathless girl, as she returned
with a small bottle filled with quinine. "And as soon as you can, get
away from this terrible place."
"We will leave now, my daughter; we are but in the way. Later on we may
be useful. Command me, Senhor," added the Portuguese; "whatever I have
is at your service. I pray you do not spare me or mine."
With a stately wave of the hand, as though he were quitting a palace,
instead of a poor barrack-room in a dilapidated fort, the nobleman
passed on.
"You will let me know," said Isabel, pausing before she joined her
father, and raising the large black eyes to the missionary's face--"you
will let me know how your poor friend is." And with one more glance
round the room, and at the wretched bed, she passed out.
Wyzinski stood looking at her. It seemed like a dream; but then there
was the stoppered bottle of white powder in his hand to prove the
reality. All that day, all that night, the missionary watched by the
bedside. Towards midnight a heavy thunderstorm passed over the plains
watered by the Zambesi. The air seemed blue with the forked lightning;
the thunder rattled and roared over the fort, but the morning dawned
calm and beautiful, and a cool breeze blew in at the open windows,
bringing with it the sweet breath of the tamarind flowers. The quinine,
too, had done its work; and the crisis which in the dreadful tertian
fever of the Zambesi always occurs on the third day, had passed over
favourably. These storms are of frequent occurrence in the land through
which the Zambesi rolls its waters, and scarcely a week goes by without
the thunder making itself heard round the dilapidated walls of Senna.
Another of these periodical storms had just occurred, sweeping over the
land, accompanied by torrents of rain, cooling the air, and refreshing
the parched-up plains on the banks of the Zambesi. The river was high
in consequence, rolling down branches and trees and quantities of
driftwood past the brick walls of the crumbling fort. It has already
been said that several small islands intersect the course of the river;
and near one of these, not a stone's throw from the water-gate, two
boats were moored, swinging to the stream. The one a large
European-looking pinnace--though really built on the Zambesi after an
English model--possessed a covered cabin aft, and was capable of holding
some twenty people. The other was of smaller and lighter mould. From
the island came the sounds of laughter and conversation.
Under the trellised creepers, through which the rays of the afternoon
sun were shining, sat a party of Europeans. The water was bubbling up
in a stone basin; the purple grapes were hanging in rich clusters from
the vines; and there, doing the honours of the table with a gentle grace
which showed a practised ease and knowledge of the world, sat Dona
Isabel Maxara. Near her, half sitting, half reclining on some cushions,
Captain Hughes seemed lost in contemplation of the fair girl. Still
very weak, and much pulled down by the short but sharp attack of the
deadly tertian, he had got it into his head that the quinine had saved
his life; and perhaps it was not a very unpleasant thing to be beholden
for life to so fair a physician. And so he gazed on the tall, graceful,
and beautifully-turned figure, the head carried with that dignified
swan-like movement peculiar to Spain and Portugal, the long black lace
veil now thrown back and floating behind. The clear olive complexion
was well set off by the crimson lips of the well-cut mouth, and the
large coal black eyes, with their long lashes, well matched by the
luxuriant tresses of jetty hair. As she rose to carry the small cup of
coffee to the invalid, he certainly thought the life it pleased him to
consider she had saved, could not have a better use than devotion to
her; and when the fair Isabel stooped over the young soldier, and one
long tress, of the raven hair touched his hand, raised to receive the
cap, the rosy flush flew up into a cheek once browned by exposure, but
paled now by illness.
At a table close by, the Portuguese envoy, Dom Francisco Maxara, sat
playing at chess with the Commandant of Senna; the two, wholly absorbed
in their game, exchanging a word only at intervals. The missionary was
unpacking, showing, and repacking, the various skins and small animals
he had managed to secure. The birds were singing in the bushes round
about, and above all came the buzz of insect life, and the ceaseless
roll of the broad Zambesi.
The soldier lay back on the cushions sipping his coffee, his eyes half
shut, a pleasant feeling of indolence enervating his frame, as he gazed.
"She is very lovely," he muttered; "and here am I, a captain of a
marching regiment, allowing myself to fall in love with the daughter of
a Portuguese grandee, whom I shall probably never see again."
"And this," continued Wyzinski, who seemed to have monopolised the
conversation, "is it not a beautiful skin? Do you remember, Hughes,
shooting this wild cat in the tree the morning of that terrible day
among the Amatongas?"
"Indeed," replied the other, "I am little likely to forget it. I shall
always think it was the excitement, and the prostration consequent on
the hunt, which so nearly consigned me to an African grave."
"Tell me the tale," cried Isabel. "I long to hear your adventures among
the tribes of the interior. It seems so strange for us to meet here on
this great African river."
The conversation was carried on in French; and the soldier told of their
travels; told how the baboon had first been found; how it had lived in
the camp, and how it had died. The chess-players were disturbed by the
silvery peals of laughter which rang round them as Hughes related, with
some humour, the incident of the powder-flask; and Dona Isabel's dark
eyes had been fixed for a long time on the speaker's face ere the tale
was finished, and the sun sank beneath the horizon, the stars peeping
out, while the fire-flies came floating around, and the cool puffs of
the sea breeze swept across the river.
"Sing for us, Isabel," said Dom Francisco, as he checkmated his
antagonist, at the same time rising and making him a stately bow.
Dona Isabel took her guitar, and the sweet tones of her voice rang out
among the trellised vines and over the broad river, dying away on the
plains beyond, where the howl of the jackal was just making itself
heard.
"You will give me my revenge, Senhor Maxara," asked the Commandant.
"Nay, Dom Isidore, not possible--at least, until you do me the high
honour of becoming my guest in our own land. We must leave to-morrow
evening."
"And the Dona Isabel," asked Mujaio. "Is she, too, in such a hurry to
leave Senna?"
"The Dona Isabel must abide by her father's decision," she replied; "but
she may have a word to say to Dom Maxara on the subject."
Rising, Isabel took her father's arm, and leading him towards the river
side, seemed to urge something, to which he would not consent.
"Impossible, Isabel; wholly so. The brig is an English trader, bound
for the Cape, and takes us only as passengers. Her captain cannot delay
beyond the stipulated day; but come, we will do our best."
"My daughter, Dom Isidore has been urging our stay at Senna for some
days longer, but I am forced to say nay. You, gentlemen," continued the
ceremonious old noble, bowing first to the missionary, then to the
soldier, "seek to return to the Cape; will you so far honour my daughter
and myself as to accompany us?"
The soldier's face flushed with pleasure. It was just what he could
have desired. Wyzinski courteously declined, urging that they must wait
until the "Alert" gun brig should touch at Quillimane, as they were
without funds, and unable to pay their passage to the Cape.
A stately wave of the hand from Dom Francisco followed this
matter-of-fact declaration, which wounded the soldier to the quick. He
almost hated Wyzinski, and yet the determination had been come to that
morning, on hearing of the advent of the "Alert."
"The brig `Halcyon' waits us at Quillimane," persisted the noble. "She
is chartered by my government to convey me, its envoy, to the Cape, and
can take no passengers, but is bound to receive my suite and guests.
Will the senhors honour us by becoming the latter?"
"And you may, indeed, help us," interposed Isabel, fixing her dark eyes
on the missionary. "What shall we do on board an English brig, with no
one to understand us. But will not the senhor be too weak if we leave
to-morrow?"
As she stood there, with the stars shining upon her, and the fire-flies
playing like an aureole round her head, it occurred to Hughes that he
was strong enough to follow her anywhere. The missionary looked at him
inquiringly.
"Every day will bring me strength," he replied; "and I shall be very
glad to get to the sea once more. Senhor Dom Francisco Maxara, I accept
your kind and generous offer, with many thanks."
"And I also," joined in Wyzinski.
"Then, Senhor Commandant, we will start to-morrow evening. I shall
leave my staff here until the surveys, estimates, and plans be
completed, and you shall have your revenge when you come home."
"All shall be in readiness," replied Mujaio, as he took a whistle from
his neck, and sounded a shrill call. A boat shot across the stream from
the fort; the noise of the oars straining in the rowlocks was heard, and
the bowman jumped ashore, holding the boat's painter in his hand.
"Good-night, gentlemen," said the noble. "I shall have much business to
transact with the Senhor Commandant to-morrow, and may not see you. My
daughter, Dona Isabel, will hope to have that pleasure in my absence.
The smaller of the two boats allotted us you will look upon as yours."
Moving towards the river, his daughter on his arm, the stately
Portuguese took off his broad-brimmed hat most courteously. Senhor
Mujaio followed, having first handed the missionary the silver whistle.
"When you require the boat you have only to use this. Good-night,
gentlemen."
A dark spot shot off from the bank into the starlight; the noise of the
oars was again heard, and then the sound of a merry Portuguese air, in
the chorus of which even the boatmen joined, though the soft, silvery
female voice told who was the principal singer. Then the dark shadow
thrown across the river received the boat, and all was silent. With a
sigh of gratification, Hughes threw himself back on the cushions.
"Well, there is our future provided for," he ejaculated. "Who would
have thought of meeting such a divine creature here, Wyzinski? Fancy
such a jewel shut up in that crumbling old fort. Why, the Amatongas
even could take it."
"There is a much more warlike tribe here to the north, named the
Landeens, who have taken it more than once," replied the missionary.
"And might do so again," mused the other, "this very night."
"Don't you think you might utilise your light infantry education?" asked
Wyzinski.
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I mean if you were to run away, as you did from the hippopotamus."
"What, run away from the Landeens?"
"No, from the lady," laughed Wyzinski; "I think it would be the wisest
plan."
"Don't be a fool, Wyzinski; I am not strong enough to bear chaffing."
"But quite strong enough to go down the stream--of course I don't mean
the stream of life, but of the Zambesi--with Dona Isabel de Maxara?"
The captain of the gallant 150th did not reply, but fell into a musing
mood. Some Portuguese cigarettes lay on the table near the chessmen.
The night was cool; and it was pleasant, looking over the flowing river,
and watching the twinkling lights flashing from the windows and
embrasures of the fort. The cry of the jackal was heard from time to
time; a distant splash told of the hippopotami; and then the moon rose,
tinging the stream with its rays, and lighting up the islands on its
bosom. The well-known conical hill of Baramuana became distinctly
visible; and far away to the northward, the faint, ghostlike outline of
the Morumbala range could with difficulty be traced; while the flat
country round, closely covered with forest growth, looked like a dark
blot in the moonlight. The lights twinkled and then went out in the
fort; the noise in the wretched houses of Senna gradually ceasing.
"And what are your intentions, Wyzinski, on your arrival at the Cape?"
asked Hughes, after a long silence.
"To organise a party; get the support of the English Government, if
possible; but, whether or not, to return to the Amatonga, and by means
of the ambition of their chief, Umhleswa, fully to explore the ruins now
lying buried there. Will you join me?"
"No, Wyzinski; I have had enough of African life. I long for Europe and
its civilisation."
"Say for Portugal and its water-melons, and I shall understand you
better."
"Nay," answered the soldier, dreamily; "this fever has weakened me, and
I have my regiment to think of. I must shake it off, or all hopes of
advancement will be taken from me."
"You are quite right," replied the missionary. "Concentrate your
thoughts on that, and don't think of the Dona Isabel; that haughty old
noble would as soon dream of the sun for her bridegroom, as of a captain
of the 150th."
The soldier sighed; and Wyzinski, using the whistle, the boat was soon
once more at the island, and Senna, its fort, commandant, garrison, and
guests, buried in deep sleep, even with the fear of the treacherous
Landeens before their eyes.
Volume 2, Chapter I.